Metamorphoses

Ovid

Ovid. Metamorphoses. More, Brookes, translator. Boston: Cornhill Publishing Co., 1922.

Thy grandson, Cadmus, was the first to cast
thy dear felicity in sorrow's gloom.
Oh, it was pitiful to witness him,
his horns outbranching from his forehead, chased
by dogs that panted for their master's blood!
If thou shouldst well inquire it will be shown
his sorrow was the crime of Fortune—not
his guilt—for who maintains mistakes are crimes?
Upon a mountain stained with slaughtered game,
the young Hyantian stood. Already day,
increasing to meridian, made decrease
the flitting shadows, and the hot sun shone
betwixt extremes in equal distance. Such
the hour, when speaking to his fellow friends,
the while they wandered by those lonely haunts,
actaeon of Hyantis kindly thus;
“Our nets and steel are stained with slaughtered game,
the day has filled its complement of sport;
now, when Aurora in her saffron car
brings back the light of day, we may again
repair to haunts of sport. Now Phoebus hangs
in middle sky, cleaving the fields with heat.—
enough of toil; take down the knotted nets.”—
all did as he commanded; and they sought
their needed rest.
There is a valley called
Gargaphia; sacred to Diana, dense
with pine trees and the pointed cypress, where,
deep in the woods that fringed the valley's edge,
was hollowed in frail sandstone and the soft
white pumice of the hills an arch, so true
it seemed the art of man; for Nature's touch
ingenious had so fairly wrought the stone,
making the entrance of a grotto cool.
Upon the right a limpid fountain ran,
and babbled, as its lucid channel spread
into a clear pool edged with tender grass.
Here, when a-wearied with exciting sport,
the Sylvan goddess loved to come and bathe
her virgin beauty in the crystal pool.
After Diana entered with her nymphs,
she gave her javelin, quiver and her bow
to one accustomed to the care of arms;
she gave her mantle to another nymph
who stood near by her as she took it off;
two others loosed the sandals from her feet;
but Crocale, the daughter of Ismenus,
more skillful than her sisters, gathered up
the goddess' scattered tresses in a knot;—
her own were loosely wantoned on the breeze.
Then in their ample urns dipt up the wave
and poured it forth, the cloud-nymph Nephele,
the nymph of crystal pools called Hyale,
the rain-drop Rhanis, Psecas of the dews,
and Phyale the guardian of their urns.
And while they bathed Diana in their streams,
Actaeon, wandering through the unknown woods,
entered the precincts of that sacred grove;
with steps uncertain wandered he as fate
directed, for his sport must wait till morn.—
soon as he entered where the clear springs welled
or trickled from the grotto's walls, the nymphs,
now ready for the bath, beheld the man,
smote on their breasts, and made the woods resound,
suddenly shrieking. Quickly gathered they
to shield Diana with their naked forms, but she
stood head and shoulders taller than her guards.—
as clouds bright-tinted by the slanting sun,
or purple-dyed Aurora, so appeared
Diana's countenance when she was seen.
Oh, how she wished her arrows were at hand!
But only having water, this she took
and dashed it on his manly countenance,
and sprinkled with the avenging stream his hair,
and said these words, presage of future woe;
“Go tell it, if your tongue can tell the tale,
your bold eyes saw me stripped of all my robes.”
No more she threatened, but she fixed the horns
of a great stag firm on his sprinkled brows;
she lengthened out his neck; she made his ears
sharp at the top; she changed his hands and feet;
made long legs of his arms, and covered him
with dappled hair—his courage turned to fear.
The brave son of Autonoe took to flight,
and marveled that he sped so swiftly on.—
he saw his horns reflected in a stream
and would have said, “Ah, wretched me!” but now
he had no voice, and he could only groan:
large tears ran trickling down his face, transformed
in every feature.—Yet, as clear remained
his understanding, and he wondered what
he should attempt to do: should he return
to his ancestral palace, or plunge deep
in vast vacuities of forest wilds?
Fear made him hesitate to trust the woods,
and shame deterred him from his homeward way.
While doubting thus his dogs espied him there:
first Blackfoot and the sharp nosed Tracer raised
the signal: Tracer of the Gnossian breed,
and Blackfoot of the Spartan: swift as wind
the others followed. Glutton, Quicksight, Surefoot,
three dogs of Arcady; then valiant Killbuck,
Tempest, fierce Hunter, and the rapid Wingfoot;
sharp-scented Chaser, and Woodranger wounded
so lately by a wild boar; savage Wildwood,
the wolf-begot with Shepherdess the cow-dog;
and ravenous Harpy followed by her twin whelps;
and thin-girt Ladon chosen from Sicyonia;
racer and Barker, brindled Spot and Tiger;
sturdy old Stout and white haired Blanche and black Smut
lusty big Lacon, trusty Storm and Quickfoot;
active young Wolfet and her Cyprian brother
black headed Snap, blazed with a patch of white hair
from forehead to his muzzle; swarthy Blackcoat
and shaggy Bristle, Towser and Wildtooth,
his sire of Dicte and his dam of Lacon;
and yelping Babbler: these and others, more
than patience leads us to recount or name.
All eager for their prey the pack surmount
rocks, cliffs and crags, precipitous—where paths
are steep, where roads are none. He flies by routes
so oft pursued but now, alas, his flight
is from his own!—He would have cried, “Behold
your master!—It is I—Actaeon!” Words
refused his will. The yelping pack pressed on.
First Blackmane seized and tore his master's back,
Savage the next, then Rover's teeth were clinched
deep in his shoulder.—These, though tardy out,
cut through a by-path and arriving first
clung to their master till the pack came up.
The whole pack fastened on their master's flesh
till place was none for others. Groaning he
made frightful sounds that not the human voice
could utter nor the stag; and filled the hills
with dismal moans; and as a suppliant fell
down to the ground upon his trembling knees;
and turned his stricken eyes on his own dogs,
entreating them to spare him from their fangs.
But his companions, witless of his plight,
urged on the swift pack with their hunting cries.
They sought Actaeon and they vainly called,
“Actaeon! Hi! Actaeon!” just as though
he was away from them. Each time they called
he turned his head. And when they chided him,
whose indolence denied the joys of sport,
how much he wished an indolent desire
had haply held him from his ravenous pack.
Oh, how much;better 'tis to see the hunt,
and the fierce dogs, than feel their savage deeds!
They gathered round him, and they fixed their snouts
deep in his flesh: tore him to pieces, he
whose features only as a stag appeared.—
'Tis said Diana's fury raged with none
abatement till the torn flesh ceased to live.

Hapless Actaeon's end in various ways
was now regarded; some deplored his doom,
but others praised Diana's chastity;
and all gave many reasons. But the spouse
of Jove, alone remaining silent, gave
nor praise nor blame. Whenever calamity
befell the race of Cadmus she rejoiced,
in secret, for she visited her rage
on all Europa's kindred.
Now a fresh
occasion has been added to her grief,
and wild with jealousy of Semele,
her tongue as ever ready to her rage,
lets loose a torrent of abuse;
“Away!
Away with words! Why should I speak of it?
Let me attack her! Let me spoil that jade!
Am I not Juno the supreme of Heaven?
Queen of the flashing scepter? Am I not
sister and wife of Jove omnipotent?
She even wishes to be known by him
a mother of a Deity, a joy
almost denied to me! Great confidence
has she in her great beauty—nevertheless,
I shall so weave the web the bolt of Jove
would fail to save her.—Let the Gods deny
that I am Saturn's daughter, if her shade
descend not stricken to the Stygian wave.”
She rose up quickly from her shining throne,
and hidden in a cloud of fiery hue
descended to the home of Semele;
and while encompassed by the cloud, transformed
her whole appearance as to counterfeit
old Beroe, an Epidaurian nurse,
who tended Semele.
Her tresses changed
to grey, her smooth skin wrinkled and her step
grown feeble as she moved with trembling limbs;—
her voice was quavering as an ancient dame's,
as Juno, thus disguised, began to talk
to Semele. When presently the name
of Jove was mentioned—artful Juno thus;
(doubtful that Jupiter could be her love)—
“When Jove appears to pledge his love to you,
implore him to assume his majesty
and all his glory, even as he does
in presence of his stately Juno—Yea,
implore him to caress you as a God.”
With artful words as these the goddess worked
upon the trusting mind of Semele,
daughter of Cadmus, till she begged of Jove
a boon, that only hastened her sad death;
for Jove not knowing her design replied,
“Whatever thy wish, it shall not be denied,
and that thy heart shall suffer no distrust,
I pledge me by that Deity, the Waves
of the deep Stygian Lake,—oath of the Gods.”
All overjoyed at her misfortune, proud
that she prevailed, and pleased that she secured
of him a promise, that could only cause
her own disaster, Semele addressed
almighty Jove; “Come unto me in all
the splendour of thy glory, as thy might
is shown to Juno, goddess of the skies.”
Fain would he stifle her disastrous tongue;
before he knew her quest the words were said;
and, knowing that his greatest oath was pledged,
he sadly mounted to the lofty skies,
and by his potent nod assembled there
the deep clouds: and the rain began to pour,
and thunder-bolts resounded.
But he strove
to mitigate his power, and armed him not
with flames overwhelming as had put to flight
his hundred-handed foe Typhoeus—flames
too dreadful. Other thunder-bolts he took,
forged by the Cyclops of a milder heat,
with which insignia of his majesty,
sad and reluctant, he appeared to her.—
her mortal form could not endure the shock
and she was burned to ashes in his sight.
An unformed babe was rescued from her side,
and, nurtured in the thigh of Jupiter,
completed Nature's time until his birth.
Ino, his aunt, in secret nursed the boy
and cradled him. And him Nyseian nymphs
concealed in caves and fed with needful milk.

While these events according to the laws
of destiny occurred, and while the child,
the twice-born Bacchus, in his cradle lay,
'Tis told that Jupiter, a careless hour,
indulged too freely in the nectar cup;
and having laid aside all weighty cares,
jested with Juno as she idled by.
Freely the god began; “Who doubts the truth?
The female's pleasure is a great delight,
much greater than the pleasure of a male.”
Juno denied it; wherefore 'twas agreed
to ask Tiresias to declare the truth,
than whom none knew both male and female joys:
for wandering in a green wood he had seen
two serpents coupling; and he took his staff
and sharply struck them, till they broke and fled.
'Tis marvelous, that instant he became
a woman from a man, and so remained
while seven autumns passed. When eight were told,
again he saw them in their former plight,
and thus he spoke; “Since such a power was wrought,
by one stroke of a staff my sex was changed—
again I strike!” And even as he struck
the same two snakes, his former sex returned;
his manhood was restored.—
as both agreed
to choose him umpire of the sportive strife,
he gave decision in support of Jove;
from this the disappointment Juno felt
surpassed all reason, and enraged, decreed
eternal night should seal Tiresias' eyes.—
immortal Deities may never turn
decrees and deeds of other Gods to naught,
but Jove, to recompense his loss of sight,
endowed him with the gift of prophecy.

Tiresias' fame of prophecy was spread
through all the cities of Aonia,
for his unerring answers unto all
who listened to his words. And first of those
that harkened to his fateful prophecies,
a lovely Nymph, named Liriope, came
with her dear son, who then fifteen, might seem
a man or boy—he who was born to her
upon the green merge of Cephissus' stream—
that mighty River-God whom she declared
the father of her boy.—
she questioned him.
Imploring him to tell her if her son,
unequalled for his beauty, whom she called
Narcissus, might attain a ripe old age.
To which the blind seer answered in these words,
“If he but fail to recognize himself,
a long life he may have, beneath the sun,”—
so, frivolous the prophet's words appeared;
and yet the event, the manner of his death,
the strange delusion of his frenzied love, confirmed it.
Three times five years so were passed.
Another five-years, and the lad might seem
a young man or a boy. And many a youth,
and many a damsel sought to gain his love;
but such his mood and spirit and his pride,
none gained his favour.
Once a noisy Nymph,
(who never held her tongue when others spoke,
who never spoke till others had begun)
mocking Echo, spied him as he drove,
in his delusive nets, some timid stags.—
for Echo was a Nymph, in olden time,—
and, more than vapid sound,—possessed a form:
and she was then deprived the use of speech,
except to babble and repeat the words,
once spoken, over and over.
Juno confused
her silly tongue, because she often held
that glorious goddess with her endless tales,
till many a hapless Nymph, from Jove's embrace,
had made escape adown a mountain. But
for this, the goddess might have caught them. Thus
the glorious Juno, when she knew her guile;
“Your tongue, so freely wagged at my expense,
shall be of little use; your endless voice,
much shorter than your tongue.” At once the Nymph
was stricken as the goddess had decreed;—
and, ever since, she only mocks the sounds
of others' voices, or, perchance, returns
their final words.
One day, when she observed
Narcissus wandering in the pathless woods,
she loved him and she followed him, with soft
and stealthy tread.—The more she followed him
the hotter did she burn, as when the flame
flares upward from the sulphur on the torch.
Oh, how she longed to make her passion known!
To plead in soft entreaty! to implore his love!
But now, till others have begun, a mute
of Nature she must be. She cannot choose
but wait the moment when his voice may give
to her an answer.
Presently the youth,
by chance divided from his trusted friends,
cries loudly, “Who is here?” and Echo, “Here!”
Replies. Amazed, he casts his eyes around,
and calls with louder voice, “Come here!” “Come here!”
She calls the youth who calls.—He turns to see
who calls him and, beholding naught exclaims,
“Avoid me not!” “Avoid me not!” returns.
He tries again, again, and is deceived
by this alternate voice, and calls aloud;
“Oh let us come together!” Echo cries,
“Oh let us come together!” Never sound
seemed sweeter to the Nymph, and from the woods
she hastens in accordance with her words,
and strives to wind her arms around his neck.
He flies from her and as he leaves her says,
“Take off your hands! you shall not fold your arms
around me. Better death than such a one
should ever caress me!” Naught she answers save,
“Caress me!”
Thus rejected she lies hid
in the deep woods, hiding her blushing face
with the green leaves; and ever after lives
concealed in lonely caverns in the hills.
But her great love increases with neglect;
her miserable body wastes away,
wakeful with sorrows; leanness shrivels up
her skin, and all her lovely features melt,
as if dissolved upon the wafting winds—
nothing remains except her bones and voice—
her voice continues, in the wilderness;
her bones have turned to stone. She lies concealed
in the wild woods, nor is she ever seen
on lonely mountain range; for, though we hear
her calling in the hills, 'tis but a voice,
a voice that lives, that lives among the hills.
Thus he deceived the Nymph and many more,
sprung from the mountains or the sparkling waves;
and thus he slighted many an amorous youth.—
and therefore, some one whom he once despised,
lifting his hands to Heaven, implored the Gods,
“If he should love deny him what he loves!”
and as the prayer was uttered it was heard
by Nemesis, who granted her assent.
There was a fountain silver-clear and bright,
which neither shepherds nor the wild she-goats,
that range the hills, nor any cattle's mouth
had touched—its waters were unsullied—birds
disturbed it not; nor animals, nor boughs
that fall so often from the trees. Around
sweet grasses nourished by the stream grew; trees
that shaded from the sun let balmy airs
temper its waters. Here Narcissus, tired
of hunting and the heated noon, lay down,
attracted by the peaceful solitudes
and by the glassy spring. There as he stooped
to quench his thirst another thirst increased.
While he is drinking he beholds himself
reflected in the mirrored pool—and loves;
loves an imagined body which contains
no substance, for he deems the mirrored shade
a thing of life to love. He cannot move,
for so he marvels at himself, and lies
with countenance unchanged, as if indeed
a statue carved of Parian marble. Long,
supine upon the bank, his gaze is fixed
on his own eyes, twin stars; his fingers shaped
as Bacchus might desire, his flowing hair
as glorious as Apollo's, and his cheeks
youthful and smooth; his ivory neck, his mouth
dreaming in sweetness, his complexion fair
and blushing as the rose in snow-drift white.
All that is lovely in himself he loves,
and in his witless way he wants himself:—
he who approves is equally approved;
he seeks, is sought, he burns and he is burnt.
And how he kisses the deceitful fount;
and how he thrusts his arms to catch the neck
that's pictured in the middle of the stream!
Yet never may he wreathe his arms around
that image of himself. He knows not what
he there beholds, but what he sees inflames
his longing, and the error that deceives
allures his eyes. But why, O foolish boy,
so vainly catching at this flitting form?
The cheat that you are seeking has no place.
Avert your gaze and you will lose your love,
for this that holds your eyes is nothing save
the image of yourself reflected back to you.
It comes and waits with you; it has no life;
it will depart if you will only go.

Nor food nor rest can draw him thence—outstretched
upon the overshadowed green, his eyes
fixed on the mirrored image never may know
their longings satisfied, and by their sight
he is himself undone. Raising himself
a moment, he extends his arms around,
and, beckoning to the murmuring forest; “Oh,
ye aisled wood was ever man in love
more fatally than I? Your silent paths
have sheltered many a one whose love was told,
and ye have heard their voices. Ages vast
have rolled away since your forgotten birth,
but who is he through all those weary years
that ever pined away as I? Alas,
this fatal image wins my love, as I
behold it. But I cannot press my arms
around the form I see, the form that gives
me joy. What strange mistake has intervened
betwixt us and our love? It grieves me more
that neither lands nor seas nor mountains, no,
nor walls with closed gates deny our loves,
but only a little water keeps us far
asunder. Surely he desires my love
and my embraces, for as oft I strive
to kiss him, bending to the limpid stream
my lips, so often does he hold his face
fondly to me, and vainly struggles up.
It seems that I could touch him. 'Tis a strange
delusion that is keeping us apart.
“Whoever thou art, Come up! Deceive me not!
Oh, whither when I fain pursue art thou?
Ah, surely I am young and fair, the Nymphs
have loved me; and when I behold thy smiles
I cannot tell thee what sweet hopes arise.
When I extend my loving arms to thee
thine also are extended me — thy smiles
return my own. When I was weeping, I
have seen thy tears, and every sign I make
thou cost return; and often thy sweet lips
have seemed to move, that, peradventure words,
which I have never heard, thou hast returned.
“No more my shade deceives me, I perceive
'Tis I in thee—I love myself—the flame
arises in my breast and burns my heart—
what shall I do? Shall I at once implore?
Or should I linger till my love is sought?
What is it I implore? The thing that I
desire is mine—abundance makes me poor.
Oh, I am tortured by a strange desire
unknown to me before, for I would fain
put off this mortal form; which only means
I wish the object of my love away.
Grief saps my strength, the sands of life are run,
and in my early youth am I cut off;
but death is not my bane—it ends my woe.—
I would not death for this that is my love,
as two united in a single soul
would die as one.”
He spoke; and crazed with love,
returned to view the same face in the pool;
and as he grieved his tears disturbed the stream,
and ripples on the surface, glassy clear,
defaced his mirrored form. And thus the youth,
when he beheld that lovely shadow go;
“Ah whither cost thou fly? Oh, I entreat
thee leave me not. Alas, thou cruel boy
thus to forsake thy lover. Stay with me
that I may see thy lovely form, for though
I may not touch thee I shall feed my eyes
and soothe my wretched pains.” And while he spoke
he rent his garment from the upper edge,
and beating on his naked breast, all white
as marble, every stroke produced a tint
as lovely as the apple streaked with red,
or as the glowing grape when purple bloom
touches the ripening clusters.
When as glass
again the rippling waters smoothed, and when
such beauty in the stream the youth observed,
no more could he endure. As in the flame
the yellow wax, or as the hoar-frost melts
in early morning 'neath the genial sun;
so did he pine away, by love consumed,
and slowly wasted by a hidden flame.
No vermeil bloom now mingled in the white
of his complexion fair; no strength has he,
no vigor, nor the comeliness that wrought
for love so long: alas, that handsome form
by Echo fondly loved may please no more.
But when she saw him in his hapless plight,
though angry at his scorn, she only grieved.
As often as the love-lore boy complained,
“Alas!” “Alas!” her echoing voice returned;
and as he struck his hands against his arms,
she ever answered with her echoing sounds.
And as he gazed upon the mirrored pool
he said at last, “Ah, youth beloved in vain!”
“In vain, in vain!” the spot returned his words;
and when he breathed a sad “farewell!” “Farewell!”
sighed Echo too. He laid his wearied head,
and rested on the verdant grass; and those
bright eyes, which had so loved to gaze, entranced,
on their own master's beauty, sad Night closed.
And now although among the nether shades
his sad sprite roams, he ever loves to gaze
on his reflection in the Stygian wave.
His Naiad sisters mourned, and having clipped
their shining tresses laid them on his corpse:
and all the Dryads mourned: and Echo made
lament anew. And these would have upraised
his funeral pyre, and waved the flaming torch,
and made his bier; but as they turned their eyes
where he had been, alas he was not there!
And in his body's place a sweet flower grew,
golden and white, the white around the gold.

Narcissus' fate, when known throughout the land
and cities of Achaia, added fame
deserved, to blind Tiresias,—mighty seer.
Yet Pentheus, bold despiser of the Gods,
son of Echion, scoffed at all his praise,
and, sole of man deriding the great seer,
upbraided him his hapless loss of sight.
And shaking his white temples, hoar with age.
Tiresias of Pentheus prophesied,
“Oh glad the day to thee, if, light denied,
thine eyes, most fortunate, should not behold
the Bacchanalian rites! The day will come,
and soon the light will dawn, when Bacchus, born
of Semele, shall make his advent known—
all hail the new god Bacchus! Either thou
must build a temple to this Deity,
or shalt be torn asunder; thy remains,
throughout the forest scattered, will pollute
the wood with sanguinary streams; and thy
life-blood bespatter with corrupting blots
thy frenzied mother and her sisters twain.
And all shall come to pass, as I have told,
because thou wilt not honour the New God.
And thou shalt wail and marvel at the sight
of blind Tiresias, though veiled in night.”
And as he spoke, lo, Pentheus drove the seer:
but all his words, prophetic, were fulfilled,
and confirmation followed in his steps.—
Bacchus at once appears, and all the fields
resound with shouts of everybody there.—
men, brides and matrons, and a howling rout—
nobles and commons and the most refined—
a motley multitude—resistless borne
to join those rites of Bacchus, there begun.
Then Pentheus cries; “What madness, O ye brave
descendants of the Dragon! Sons of Mars!
What frenzy has confounded you? Can sounds
of clanging brass prevail; and pipes and horns,
and magical delusions, drunkenness,
and yelling women, and obscene displays,
and hollow drums, overcome you, whom the sword,
nor troops of war, nor trumpet could affright?
“How shall I wonder at these ancient men,
who, crossing boundless seas from distant Tyre,
hither transferred their exiled Household Gods,
and founded a new Tyre; but now are shorn,
and even as captives would be led away
without appeal to Mars? And, O young men,
of active prime whose vigor equals mine!
Cast down your ivy scepters; take up arms;
put on your helmets; strip your brows of leaves;
be mindful of the mighty stock you are,
and let your souls be animated with
the spirit of that dauntless dragon, which,
unaided, slew so many, and at last
died to defend his fountain and his lake.—
so ye may conquer in the hope of fame.
“He gave the brave to death, but with your arms
ye shall expel the worthless, and enhance
the glory of your land. If Fate decree
the fall of Thebes, Oh, let the engines
of war and men pull down its walls, and let
the clash of steel and roaring flames resound.
Thus, blameless in great misery, our woes
would be the theme of lamentations, known
to story; and our tears would shame us not.
“But now an unarmed boy will conquer Thebes:
a lad whom neither weapons, wars nor steeds
delight; whose ringlets reek with myrrh; adorned
with chaplets, purple and embroidered robes
of interwoven gold. Make way for me!
And I will soon compel him to confess
his father is assumed and all his rites
are frauds.
“If in days gone Acrisius
so held this vain god in deserved contempt,
and shut the Argive gates against his face,
why, therefore, should not Pentheus close the gates
of Thebes, with equal courage—Hence! Away!
Fetch the vile leader of these rioters
in chains! Let not my mandate be delayed.”
Him to restrain his grandsire, Cadmus, strove;
and Athamas, and many of his trusted friends
united in vain efforts to rebuke
his reckless rage; but greater violence
was gained from every admonition.—
his rage increased the more it was restrained,
and injury resulted from his friends.
So have I seen a stream in open course,
run gently on its way with pleasant noise,
but whensoever logs and rocks detained,
it foamed, with violence increased, against
obstruction.
Presently returning came
his servants stained with blood, to whom he said,
“What have ye done with Bacchus?” And to him
they made reply; “Not Bacchus have we seen,
but we have taken his attendant lad,
the chosen servant of his sacred rites.”
And they delivered to the noble king,
a youth whose hands were lashed behind his back.
Then Pentheus, terrible in anger, turned
his awful gaze upon the lad, and though
he scarce deferred his doom, addressed him thus;
“Doomed to destruction, thou art soon to give
example to my people by thy death:
tell me thy name; what are thy parents called;
where is thy land; and wherefore art thou found
attendant on these Bacchanalian rites.”

But fearless he replied; “They call my name
Acoetes; and Maeonia is the land
from whence I came. My parents were so poor,
my father left me neither fruitful fields,
tilled by the lusty ox, nor fleecy sheep,
nor lowing kine; for, he himself was poor,
and with his hook and line was wont to catch
the leaping fishes, landed by his rod.
His skill was all his wealth. And when to me
he gave his trade, he said, ‘You are the heir
of my employment, therefore unto you
all that is mine I give,’ and, at his death,
he left me nothing but the running waves. —
they are the sum of my inheritance.
“And, afterwhile, that I might not be bound
forever to my father's rocky shores,
I learned to steer the keel with dextrous hand;
and marked with watchful gaze the guiding stars;
the watery Constellation of the Goat,
Olenian, and the Bear, the Hyades,
the Pleiades, the houses of the winds,
and every harbour suitable for ships.
“So chanced it, as I made for Delos, first
I veered close to the shores of Chios: there
I steered, by plying on the starboard oar,
and nimbly leaping gained the sea-wet strand.
“Now when the night was past and lovely dawn
appeared, I,rose from slumber, and I bade
my men to fetch fresh water, and I showed
the pathway to the stream. Then did I climb
a promontory's height, to learn from there
the promise of the winds; which having done,
I called the men and sought once more my ship.
Opheltes, first of my companions, cried,
‘Behold we come!’ And, thinking he had caught
a worthy prize in that unfruitful land,
he led a boy, of virgin-beauty formed,
across the shore.
“Heavy with wine and sleep
the lad appeared to stagger on his way,—
with difficulty moving. When I saw
the manner of his dress, his countenance
and grace, I knew it was not mortal man,
and being well assured, I said to them;
‘What Deity abideth in that form
I cannot say; but 'tis a god in truth.—
O whosoever thou art, vouchsafe to us
propitious waters; ease our toils, and grant
to these thy grace.’
“At this, the one of all
my mariners who was the quickest hand,
who ever was the nimblest on the yards,
and first to slip the ropes, Dictys exclaimed;
‘Pray not for us!’ and all approved his words.
The golden haired, the guardian of the prow,
Melanthus, Libys and Alcimedon
approved it; and Epopeus who should urge
the flagging spirits, and with rhythmic chants
give time and measure to the beating oars,
and all the others praised their leader's words,—
so blind is greed of gain.—Then I rejoined,
‘Mine is the greatest share in this good ship,
which I will not permit to be destroyed,
nor injured by this sacred freight:’ and I
opposed them as they came.
“Then Lycabas,
the most audacious of that impious crew,
began to rage. He was a criminal,
who, for a dreadful murder, had been sent
in exile from a Tuscan city's gates.
Whilst I opposed he gripped me by the throat,
and shook me as would cast me in the deep,
had I not firmly held a rope, half stunned:
and all that wicked crew approved the deed.
“Then Bacchus (be assured it was the God)
as though the noise disturbed his lethargy
from wine, and reason had regained its power,
at last bespake the men, ‘What deeds are these?
What noise assails my ears? What means decoyed
my wandering footsteps? Whither do ye lead?’
‘Fear not,’ the steersman said, ‘but tell us fair
the haven of your hope, and you shall land
whereso your heart desires.’ ‘To Naxos steer,’
Quoth Bacchus, ‘for it is indeed my home,
and there the mariner finds welcome cheer.’
Him to deceive, they pledged themselves, and swore
by Gods of seas and skies to do his will:
and they commanded me to steer that way.
“The Isle of Naxos was upon our right;
and when they saw the sails were set that way,
they all began to shout at once, ‘What, ho!
Thou madman! what insanity is this,
Acoetes? Make our passage to the left.’
And all the while they made their meaning known
by artful signs or whispers in my ears.
“I was amazed and answered, ‘Take the helm.’
And I refused to execute their will,
atrocious, and at once resigned command.
Then all began to murmur, and the crew
reviled me. Up Aethalion jumped and said,
‘As if our only safety is in you!’
With this he swaggered up and took command;
and leaving Naxos steered for other shores.
“Then Bacchus, mocking them,—as if but then
he had discovered their deceitful ways,—
looked on the ocean from the rounded stern,
and seemed to sob as he addressed the men;
‘Ah mariners, what alien shores are these?
'Tis not the land you promised nor the port
my heart desires. For what have I deserved
this cruel wrong? What honour can accrue
if strong men mock a boy; a lonely youth
if many should deceive?’ And as he spoke,
I, also, wept to see their wickedness.
“The impious gang made merry at our tears,
and lashed the billows with their quickening oars.
By Bacchus do I swear to you (and naught
celestial is more potent) all the things
I tell you are as true as they surpass
the limit of belief. The ship stood still
as if a dry dock held it in the sea.—
“The wondering sailors laboured at the oars,
and they unfurled the sails, in hopes to gain
some headway, with redoubled energies;
but twisting ivy tangled in the oars,
and interlacing held them by its weight.
And Bacchus in the midst of all stood crowned
with chaplets of grape-leaves, and shook a lance
covered with twisted fronds of leafy vines.
Around him crouched the visionary forms
of tigers, lynxes, and the mottled shapes
of panthers.
“Then the mariners leaped out,
possessed by fear or madness. Medon first
began to turn a swarthy hue, and fins
grew outward from his flattened trunk,
and with a curving spine his body bent.—
then Lycabas to him, ‘What prodigy
is this that I behold?’ Even as he spoke,
his jaws were broadened and his nose was bent;
his hardened skin was covered with bright scales.
And Libys, as he tried to pull the oars,
could see his own hands shrivel into fins;
another of the crew began to grasp
the twisted ropes, but even as he strove
to lift his arms they fastened to his sides;—
with bending body and a crooked back
he plunged into the waves, and as he swam
displayed a tail, as crescent as the moon.
“Now here, now there, they flounce about the ship;
they spray her decks with brine; they rise and sink;
they rise again, and dive beneath the waves;
they seem in sportive dance upon the main;
out from their nostrils they spout sprays of brine;
they toss their supple sides. And I alone,
of twenty mariners that manned that ship,
remained. A cold chill seized my limbs,—
I was so frightened; but the gracious God
now spake me fair, ‘Fear not and steer for Naxos.’
And when we landed there I ministered
on smoking altars Bacchanalian rites.”

But Pentheus answered him: “A parlous tale,
and we have listened to the dreary end,
hoping our anger might consume its rage;—
away with him! hence drag him, hurl him out,
with dreadful torture, into Stygian night.”
Quickly they seized and dragged Acoetes forth,
and cast him in a dungeon triple-strong.
And while they fixed the instruments of death,
kindled the fires, and wrought the cruel irons,
the legend says, though no one aided him,
the chains were loosened and slipped off his arms;
the doors flew open of their own accord.
But Pentheus, long-persisting in his rage,
not caring to command his men to go,
himself went forth to Mount Cithaeron, where
resound with singing and with shrilly note
the votaries of Bacchus at their rites.
As when with sounding brass the trumpeter
alarms of war, the mettled charger neighs
and scents the battle; so the clamored skies
resounding with the dreadful outcries fret
the wrath of Pentheus and his rage enflame.
About the middle of the mount (with groves
around its margin) was a treeless plain,
where nothing might conceal. Here as he stood
to view the sacred rites with impious eyes,
his mother saw him first. She was so wrought
with frenzy that she failed to know her son,
and cast her thyrsus that it wounded him;
and shouted, “Hi! come hither, Ho!
Come hither my two sisters! a great boar
hath strayed into our fields; come! see me strike
and wound him!”
As he fled from them in fright
the raging multitude rushed after him;
and, as they gathered round; in cowardice
he cried for mercy and condemned himself,
confessing he had sinned against a God.
And as they wounded him he called his aunt;
“Autonoe have mercy! Let the shade
of sad Actaeon move thee to relent!”
No pity moved her when she heard that name;
in a wild frenzy she forgot her son.
While Pentheus was imploring her, she tore
his right arm out; her sister Ino wrenched
the other from his trunk. He could not stretch
his arms out to his mother, but he cried,
“Behold me, mother!” When Agave saw,
his bleeding limbs, torn, scattered on the ground,
she howled, and tossed her head, and shook her hair
that streamed upon the breeze; and when his head
was wrenched out from his mangled corpse,
she clutched it with her blood-smeared fingers, while
she shouted, “Ho! companions! victory!
The victory is ours!” So when the wind
strips from a lofty tree its leaves, which touched
by autumn's cold are loosely held, they fall
not quicker than the wretch's bleeding limbs
were torn asunder by their cursed hands.
Now, frightened by this terrible event,
the women of Ismenus celebrate
the new Bacchantian rites; and they revere
the sacred altars, heaped with frankincense.

Alcithoe, daughter of King Minyas,
consents not to the orgies of the God;
denies that Bacchus is the son of Jove,
and her two sisters join her in that crime.
'Twas festal-day when matrons and their maids,
keeping it sacred, had forbade all toil.—
And having draped their bosoms with wild skins,
they loosed their long hair for the sacred wreaths,
and took the leafy thyrsus in their hands;—
for so the priest commanded them. Austere
the wrath of Bacchus if his power be scorned.
Mothers and youthful brides obeyed the priest;
and putting by their wickers and their webs,
dropt their unfinished toils to offer up
frankincense to the God; invoking him
with many names:—“O Bacchus! O Twice-born!
O Fire-begot! Thou only child Twice-mothered!
God of all those who plant the luscious grape!
O Liber!” All these names and many more,
for ages known—throughout the lands of Greece.
“Thy youth is not consumed by wasting time;
and lo, thou art an ever-youthful boy,
most beautiful of all the Gods of Heaven,
smooth as a virgin when thy horns are hid.—
The distant east to tawny India's clime,
where rolls remotest Ganges to the sea,
was conquered by thy might.—O Most-revered!
Thou didst destroy the doubting Pentheus,
and hurled the sailors' bodies in the deep,
and smote Lycurgus, wielder of the ax.
“And thou dost guide thy lynxes, double-yoked,
with showy harness.—Satyrs follow thee;
and Bacchanals, and old Silenus, drunk,
unsteady on his staff; jolting so rough
on his small back-bent ass; and all the way
resounds a youthful clamour; and the screams
of women! and the noise of tambourines!
And the hollow cymbals! and the boxwood flutes,—
fitted with measured holes.—Thou art implored
by all Ismenian women to appear
peaceful and mild; and they perform thy rites.”
Only the daughters of King Minyas
are carding wool within their fastened doors,
or twisting with their thumbs the fleecy yarn,
or working at the web. So they corrupt
the sacred festival with needless toil,
keeping their hand-maids busy at the work.
And one of them, while drawing out the thread
with nimble thumb, anon began to speak;
“While others loiter and frequent these rites
fantastic, we the wards of Pallas, much
to be preferred, by speaking novel thoughts
may lighten labour. Let us each in turn,
relate to an attentive audience,
a novel tale; and so the hours may glide.”
it pleased her sisters, and they ordered her
to tell the story that she loved the most.
So, as she counted in her well-stored mind
the many tales she knew, first doubted she
whether to tell the tale of Derceto,—
that Babylonian, who, aver the tribes
of Palestine, in limpid ponds yet lives,—
her body changed, and scales upon her limbs;
or how her daughter, having taken wings,
passed her declining years in whitened towers.
Or should she tell of Nais, who with herbs,
too potent, into fishes had transformed
the bodies of her lovers, till she met
herself the same sad fate; or of that tree
which sometime bore white fruit, but now is changed
and darkened by the blood that stained its roots.—
Pleased with the novelty of this, at once
she tells the tale of Pyramus and Thisbe;—
and swiftly as she told it unto them,
the fleecy wool was twisted into threads.

When Pyramus and Thisbe, who were known
the one most handsome of all youthful men,
the other loveliest of all eastern girls,—
lived in adjoining houses, near the walls
that Queen Semiramis had built of brick
around her famous city, they grew fond,
and loved each other—meeting often there—
and as the days went by their love increased.
They wished to join in marriage, but that joy
their fathers had forbidden them to hope;
and yet the passion that with equal strength
inflamed their minds no parents could forbid.
No relatives had guessed their secret love,
for all their converse was by nods and signs;
and as a smoldering fire may gather heat,
the more 'tis smothered, so their love increased.
Now, it so happened, a partition built
between their houses, many years ago,
was made defective with a little chink;
a small defect observed by none, although
for ages there; but what is hid from love?
Our lovers found the secret opening,
and used its passage to convey the sounds
of gentle, murmured words, whose tuneful note
passed oft in safety through that hidden way.
There, many a time, they stood on either side,
thisbe on one and Pyramus the other,
and when their warm breath touched from lip to lip,
their sighs were such as this: “Thou envious wall
why art thou standing in the way of those
who die for love? What harm could happen thee
shouldst thou permit us to enjoy our love?
But if we ask too much, let us persuade
that thou wilt open while we kiss but once:
for, we are not ungrateful; unto thee
we own our debt; here thou hast left a way
that breathed words may enter loving ears.,”
so vainly whispered they, and when the night
began to darken they exchanged farewells;
made presence that they kissed a fond farewell
vain kisses that to love might none avail.
When dawn removed the glimmering lamps of night,
and the bright sun had dried the dewy grass
again they met where they had told their love;
and now complaining of their hapless fate,
in murmurs gentle, they at last resolved,
away to slip upon the quiet night,
elude their parents, and, as soon as free,
quit the great builded city and their homes.
Fearful to wander in the pathless fields,
they chose a trysting place, the tomb of Ninus,
where safely they might hide unseen, beneath
the shadow of a tall mulberry tree,
covered with snow-white fruit, close by a spring.
All is arranged according to their hopes:
and now the daylight, seeming slowly moved,
sinks in the deep waves, and the tardy night
arises from the spot where day declines.
Quickly, the clever Thisbe having first
deceived her parents, opened the closed door.
She flitted in the silent night away;
and, having veiled her face, reached the great tomb,
and sat beneath the tree; love made her bold.
There, as she waited, a great lioness
approached the nearby spring to quench her thirst:
her frothing jaws incarnadined with blood
of slaughtered oxen. As the moon was bright,
Thisbe could see her, and affrighted fled
with trembling footstep to a gloomy cave;
and as she ran she slipped and dropped her veil,
which fluttered to the ground. She did not dare
to save it. Wherefore, when the savage beast
had taken a great draft and slaked her thirst,
and thence had turned to seek her forest lair,
she found it on her way, and full of rage,
tore it and stained it with her bloody jaws:
but Thisbe, fortunate, escaped unseen.
Now Pyramus had not gone out so soon
as Thisbe to the tryst; and, when he saw
the certain traces of that savage beast,
imprinted in the yielding dust, his face
went white with fear; but when he found the veil
covered with blood, he cried; “Alas, one night
has caused the ruin of two lovers! Thou
wert most deserving of completed days,
but as for me, my heart is guilty! I
destroyed thee! O my love! I bade thee come
out in the dark night to a lonely haunt,
and failed to go before. Oh! whatever lurks
beneath this rock, though ravenous lion, tear
my guilty flesh, and with most cruel jaws
devour my cursed entrails! What? Not so;
it is a craven's part to wish for death!”
So he stopped briefly; and took up the veil;
went straightway to the shadow of the tree;
and as his tears bedewed the well-known veil,
he kissed it oft and sighing said, “Kisses
and tears are thine, receive my blood as well.”
And he imbrued the steel, girt at his side,
deep in his bowels; and plucked it from the wound,
a-faint with death. As he fell back to earth,
his spurting blood shot upward in the air;
so, when decay has rift a leaden pipe
a hissing jet of water spurts on high.—
By that dark tide the berries on the tree
assumed a deeper tint, for as the roots
soaked up the blood the pendent mulberries
were dyed a purple tint.
Thisbe returned,
though trembling still with fright, for now she thought
her lover must await her at the tree,
and she should haste before he feared for her.
Longing to tell him of her great escape
she sadly looked for him with faithful eyes;
but when she saw the spot and the changed tree,
she doubted could they be the same, for so
the colour of the hanging fruit deceived.
While doubt dismayed her, on the ground she saw
the wounded body covered with its blood;—
she started backward, and her face grew pale
and ashen; and she shuddered like the sea,
which trembles when its face is lightly skimmed
by the chill breezes;—and she paused a space;—
but when she knew it was the one she loved,
she struck her tender breast and tore her hair.
Then wreathing in her arms his loved form,
she bathed the wound with tears, mingling her grief
in his unquenched blood; and as she kissed
his death-cold features wailed; “Ah Pyramus,
what cruel fate has taken thy life away?
Pyramus! Pyramus! awake! awake!
It is thy dearest Thisbe calls thee! Lift
thy drooping head! Alas,”—At Thisbe's name
he raised his eyes, though languorous in death,
and darkness gathered round him as he gazed.
And then she saw her veil; and near it lay
his ivory sheath—but not the trusty sword
and once again she wailed; “Thy own right hand,
and thy great passion have destroyed thee!—
And I? my hand shall be as bold as thine—
my love shall nerve me to the fatal deed—
thee, I will follow to eternity—
though I be censured for the wretched cause,
so surely I shall share thy wretched fate:—
alas, whom death could me alone bereave,
thou shalt not from my love be reft by death!
And, O ye wretched parents, mine and his,
let our misfortunes and our pleadings melt
your hearts, that ye no more deny to those
whom constant love and lasting death unite—
entomb us in a single sepulchre.
“And, O thou tree of many-branching boughs,
spreading dark shadows on the corpse of one,
destined to cover twain, take thou our fate
upon thy head; mourn our untimely deaths;
let thy fruit darken for a memory,
an emblem of our blood.” No more she said;
and having fixed the point below her breast,
she fell on the keen sword, still warm with his red blood.
But though her death was out of Nature's law
her prayer was answered, for it moved the Gods
and moved their parents. Now the Gods have changed
the ripened fruit which darkens on the branch:
and from the funeral pile their parents sealed
their gathered ashes in a single urn.

So ended she; at once Leuconoe
took the narrator's thread; and as she spoke
her sisters all were silent.
“Even the Sun
that rules the world was captive made of Love.
My theme shall be a love-song of the Sun.
'Tis said the Lord of Day, whose wakeful eye
beholds at once whatever may transpire,
witnessed the loves of Mars and Venus. Grieved
to know the wrong, he called the son of Juno,
Vulcan, and gave full knowledge of the deed,
showing how Mars and Venus shamed his love,
as they defiled his bed. Vulcan amazed,—
the nimble-thoughted Vulcan lost his wits,
so that he dropped the work his right hand held.
But turning from all else at once he set
to file out chains of brass, delicate, fine,
from which to fashion nets invisible,
filmy of mesh and airy as the thread
of insect-web, that from the rafter swings.—
Implicit woven that they yielded soft
the slightest movement or the gentlest touch,
with cunning skill he drew them round the bed
where they were sure to dally. Presently
appeared the faithless wife, and on the couch
lay down to languish with her paramour.—
Meshed in the chains they could not thence arise,
nor could they else but lie in strict embrace,—
cunningly thus entrapped by Vulcan's wit.—
At once the Lemnian cuckold opened wide
the folding ivory doors and called the Gods,—
to witness. There they lay disgraced and bound.
I wot were many of the lighter Gods
who wished themselves in like disgraceful bonds.—
The Gods were moved to laughter: and the tale
was long most noted in the courts of Heaven.
The Cytherean Venus brooded on
the Sun's betrayal of her stolen joys,
and thought to torture him in passion's pains,
and wreak requital for the pain he caused.
Son of Hyperion! what avails thy light?
What is the profit of thy glowing heat?
Lo, thou whose flames have parched innumerous lands,
thyself art burning with another flame!
And thou whose orb should joy the universe
art gazing only on Leucothea's charms.
Thy glorious eye on one fair maid is fixed,
forgetting all besides. Too early thou
art rising from thy bed of orient skies,
too late thy setting in the western waves;
so taking time to gaze upon thy love,
thy frenzy lengthens out the wintry hour!
And often thou art darkened in eclipse,
dark shadows of this trouble in thy mind,
unwonted aspect, casting man perplexed
in abject terror. Pale thou art, though not
betwixt thee and the earth the shadowous moon
bedims thy devious way. Thy passion gives
to grief thy countenance—for her thy heart
alone is grieving—Clymene and Rhodos,
and Persa, mother of deluding Circe,
are all forgotten for thy doting hope;
even Clytie, who is yearning for thy love,
no more can charm thee; thou art so foredone.
Leucothea is the cause of many tears,
Leucothea, daughter of Eurynome,
most beauteous matron of Arabia's strand,
where spicey odours blow. Eurynome
in youthful prime excelled her mother's grace,
and, save her daughter, all excelled besides.
Leucothea's father, Orchamas was king
where Achaemenes whilom held the sway;
and Orchamas from ancient Belus' death
might count his reign the seventh in descent.
The dark-night pastures of Apollo's steeds
are hid below the western skies; when there,
and spent with toil, in lieu of nibbling herbs
they take ambrosial food: it gives their limbs
restoring strength and nourishes anew.
Now while these coursers eat celestial food
and Night resumes his reign, the god appears
disguised, unguessed, as old Eurynome
to fair Leucothea as she draws the threads,
all smoothly twisted from her spindle. There
she sits with twice six hand-maids ranged around,
and as the god beholds her at the door
he kisses her, as if a child beloved
and he her mother. And he spoke to her:
“Let thy twelve hand-maids leave us undisturbed,
for I have things of close import to tell,
and seemly, from a mother to her child.”,
so when they all withdrew the god began,
“Lo, I am he who measures the long year;
I see all things, and through me the wide world
may see all things; I am the glowing eye
of the broad universe! Thou art to me
the glory of the earth!” Filled with alarm,
from her relaxed fingers she let fall
the distaff and the spindle, but, her fear
so lovely in her beauty seemed, the God
no longer brooked delay: he changed his form
back to his wonted beauty and resumed
his bright celestial. Startled at the sight
the maid recoiled a space; but presently
the glory of the god inspired her love;
and all her timid doubts dissolved away;
without complaint she melted in his arms.
So ardently the bright Apollo loved,
that Clytie, envious of Leucothea's joy,
where evil none was known, a scandal made;
and having published wide their secret love,
leucothea's father also heard the tale.
Relentlessly and fierce, his cruel hand
buried his living daughter in the ground,
who, while her arms implored the glowing Sun,
complained. “For love of thee my life is lost.”
And as she wailed her father sowed her there.
Hyperion's Son began with piercing heat
to scatter the loose sand, a way to open,
that she might look with beauteous features forth
too late! for smothered by the compact earth,
thou canst not lift thy drooping head; alas!
A lifeless corse remains.
No sadder sight
since Phaethon was blasted by the bolt,
down-hurled by Jove, had ever grieved the God
who daily drives his winged steeds. In vain
he strives with all the magic of his rays
to warm her limbs anew. — The deed is done—
what vantage gives his might if fate deny?
He sprinkles fragrant nectar on her grave,
and lifeless corse, and as he wails exclaims,
“But naught shall hinder you to reach the skies.”
At once the maiden's body, steeped in dews
of nectar, sweet and odourate, dissolves
and adds its fragrant juices to the earth:
slowly from this a sprout of Frankincense
takes root in riched soil, and bursting through
the sandy hillock shows its top.
No more
to Clytie comes the author of sweet light,
for though her love might make excuse of grief,
and grief may plead to pardon jealous words,
his heart disdains the schemist of his woe;
and she who turned to sour the sweet of love,
from that unhallowed moment pined away.
Envious and hating all her sister Nymphs,
day after day,—and through the lonely nights,
all unprotected from the chilly breeze,
her hair dishevelled, tangled, unadorned,
she sat unmoved upon the bare hard ground.
Nine days the Nymph was nourished by the dews,
or haply by her own tears' bitter brine;—
all other nourishment was naught to her.—
She never raised herself from the bare ground,
though on the god her gaze was ever fixed;—
she turned her features towards him as he moved:
they say that afterwhile her limbs took root
and fastened to the around.
A pearly white
overspread her countenance, that turned as pale
and bloodless as the dead; but here and there
a blushing tinge resolved in violet tint;
and something like the blossom of that name
a flower concealed her face. Although a root
now holds her fast to earth, the Heliotrope
turns ever to the Sun, as if to prove
that all may change and love through all remain.

Thus was the story ended. All were charmed
to hear recounted such mysterious deeds.
While some were doubting whether such were true
others affirmed that to the living Gods
is nothing to restrain their wondrous works,
though surely of the Gods, immortal, none
accorded Bacchus even thought or place.
When all had made an end of argument,
they bade Alcithoe take up the word:
she, busily working on the pendent web,
still shot the shuttle through the warp and said;
“The amours of the shepherd Daphnis, known
to many of you, I shall not relate;
the shepherd Daphnis of Mount Ida, who
was turned to stone obdurate, for the Nymph
whose love he slighted—so the rivalry
of love neglected rouses to revenge:
neither shall I relate the story told
of Scython, double-sexed, who first was man,
then altered to a woman: so I pass
the tale of Celmus turned to adamant,
who reared almighty Jove from tender youth:
so, likewise the Curetes whom the rain
brought forth to life: Smilax and Crocus, too,
transpeciated into little flowers:
all these I pass to tell a novel tale,
which haply may resolve in pleasant thoughts.
Learn how the fountain, Salmacis, became
so infamous; learn how it enervates
and softens the limbs of those who chance to bathe.
Although the fountain's properties are known,
the cause is yet unknown. The Naiads nursed
an infant son of Hermes, surely his
of Aphrodite gotten in the caves
of Ida, for the child resembled both
the god and goddess, and his name was theirs.
The years passed by, and when the boy had reached
the limit of three lustrums, he forsook
his native mountains; for he loved to roam
through unimagined places, by the banks
of undiscovered rivers; and the joy
of finding wonders made his labour light.
Leaving Mount Ida, where his youth was spent,
he reached the land of Lycia, and from thence
the verge of Caria, where a pretty pool
of soft translucent water may be seen,
so clear the glistening bottom glads the eye:
no barren sedge, no fenny reeds annoy,
no rushes with their sharpened arrow-points,
but all around the edges of that pool
the softest grass engirdles with its green.
A Nymph dwells there, unsuited to the chase,
unskilled to bend the bow, slothful of foot,
the only Naiad in the world unknown
to rapid-running Dian. Whensoever
her Naiad sisters pled in winged words,
“Take up the javelin, sister Salmacis,
take up the painted quiver and unite
your leisure with the action of the chase;”
she only scorned the javelin and the quiver,
nor joined her leisure to the active chase.
Rather she bathes her smooth and shapely limbs;
or combs her tresses with a boxwood comb,
Citorian; or looking in the pool
consults the glassed waters of effects
increasing beauty; or she decks herself
in gauzy raiment, and reposing lolls
on cushioned leaves, or grass-enverdured beds;
or gathers posies from the spangled lawns.
Now, haply as she culled the sweetest flowers
she saw the youth, and longing in her heart
made havoc as her greedy eyes beheld.
Although her love could scarcely brook delay,
she waited to enhance her loveliness,
in beauty hoping to allure his love.
All richly dight she scanned herself and robes,
to know that every charm should fair appear,
and she be worthy: wherefore she began:
“O godlike youth! if thou art of the skies,
thou art no other than the god of Love;
if mortal, blest are they who gave thee birth;
happy thy brother; happy, fortunate
thy sister; happy, fortunate and blest
the nurse that gave her bosom; but the joys
surpassing all, dearest and tenderest,
are hers whom thou shalt wed. So, let it be
if thou so young have deigned to marry, let
my joys be stolen; if unmarried, join
with me in wedlock.” So she spoke, and stood
in silence waiting for the youth's reply.
He knows nor cares for love—with loveliness
the mounting blushes tinge his youthful cheeks,
as blush-red tint of apples on the tree,
ripe in the summer sun, or as the hue
of painted ivory, or the round moon
red-blushing in her splendour, when the clash
of brass resounds in vain. And long the Nymph
implored; almost clung on his neck, as smooth
and white as ivory; unceasingly
imploring him to kiss her, though as chaste
as kisses to a sister; but the youth
outwearied, thus:
“I do beseech you make
an end of this; or must I fly the place
and leave you to your tears?” Affrighted then
said Salmacis, “To you I freely give—
good stranger here remain.” Although she made
fair presence to retire, she hid herself,
that from a shrub-grown covert, on her knees
she might observe unseen.
As any boy
that heedless deems his mischief unobserved,
now here now there, he rambled on the green;
now in the bubbly ripples dipped his feet,
now dallied in the clear pool ankle-deep;—
the warm-cool feeling of the liquid then,
so pleased him, that without delay he doffed
his fleecy garments from his tender limbs.
Ah, Salmacis, amazement is thy meed!
Thou art consumed to know his naked grace!
As the hot glitters of the round bright sun
collected, sparkle from the polished plate,
thine eyes are glistened with delirious fires.
Delay she cannot; panting for his joy,
languid for his caressing, crazed, distract,
her passion difficult is held in check.—
He claps his body with his hollow palms
and lightly vaults into the limped wave,
and darting through the water hand over hand
shines in the liquid element, as though
should one enhance a statue's ivorine,
or glaze the lily in a lake of glass.
And thus the Naiad, “I have gained my suit;
his love is mine,—is mine!” Quickly disrobed,
she plunged into the yielding wave—seized him,
caressed him, clung to him a thousand ways,
kissed him, thrust down her hands and touched his breast:
reluctant and resisting he endeavours
to make escape, but even as he struggles
she winds herself about him, as entwines
the serpent which the royal bird on high
holds in his talons; —as it hangs, it coils
in sinuous folds around the eagle's feet;—
twisting its coils around his head and wings:
or as the ivy clings to sturdy oaks;
or as the polypus beneath the waves,
by pulling down, with suckers on all sides,
tenacious holds its prey. And yet the youth,
descendant of great Atlas, not relents
nor gives the Naiad joy. Pressing her suit
she winds her limbs around him and exclaims,
“You shall not scape me, struggle as you will,
perverse and obstinate! Hear me, ye Gods!
Let never time release the youth from me;
time never let me from the youth release!”

Propitious deities accord her prayers:
the mingled bodies of the pair unite
and fashion in a single human form.
So one might see two branches underneath
a single rind uniting grow as one:
so, these two bodies in a firm embrace
no more are twain, but with a two-fold form
nor man nor woman may be called—Though both
in seeming they are neither one of twain.
When that Hermaphroditus felt the change,
so wrought upon him by the languid fount,
considered that he entered it a man,
and now his limbs relaxing in the stream
he is not wholly male, but only half,—
he lifted up his hands and thus implored,
albeit with no manly voice; “Hear me
O father! hear me mother! grant to me
this boon; to me whose name is yours, your son;
whoso shall enter in this fount a man
must leave its waters only half a man.”
Moved by the words of their bi-natured son
both parents yield assent: they taint the fount
with essences of dual-working powers.
Now though the daughters of King Minyas
have made an end of telling tales, they make
no end of labour; for they so despise
the deity, and desecrate his feast.
While busily engaged, with sudden beat
they hear resounding tambourines; and pipes
and crooked horns and tinkling brass renew,
unseen, the note; saffron and myrrh dissolve
in dulcet odours; and, beyond belief,
the woven webs, dependent on the loom,
take tints of green, put forth new ivy leaves,
or change to grape-vines verdant. There the thread
is twisted into tendrils, there the warp
is fashioned into many-moving leaves—
the purple lends its splendour to the grape.
And now the day is past; it is the hour
when night ambiguous merges into day,
which dubious owns nor light nor dun obscure;
and suddenly the house begins to shake,
and torches oil-dipped seem to flare around,
and fires a-glow to shine in every room,
and phantoms, feigned of savage beasts, to howl.—
Full of affright amid the smoking halls
the sisters vainly hide, and wheresoever
they deem security from flaming fires,
fearfully flit. And while they seek to hide,
a membrane stretches over every limb,
and light wings open from their slender arms.
In the weird darkness they are unaware
what measure wrought to change their wonted shape.
No plumous vans avail to lift their flight,
yet fair they balance on membraneous wing.
Whenever they would speak a tiny voice,
diminutive, apportioned to their size,
in squeaking note complains. Adread the light,
their haunts avoid by day the leafy woods,
for sombre attics, where secure they rest
till forth the dun obscure their wings may stretch
at hour of Vesper;—this accords their name.